Of Godlings and Peer pressure
“I’ve known her longer!”
“Michael and I have been best friends since we were 3!”
“I got here first!”
“I got here literal minutes after you!”
“Oh, and that gives you – “
“BREAK IT UP PEOPLE!!”
Michael stormed into the room, physically pushing aside the huddled group of his and Elena’s closest friends and family.
“Elena and Ava are sleeping which if you had any compassion at all you’d realize!” he hissed.
They all looked suitably abashed and stepped back, some flushing.
“Now, what on earth are you arguing about?”
“…godparents”
Michael stared at his assembled family.
“You realize, of course, that this is our choice, not yours. Arguing will have no effect on the outcome.”
“What, you expected them to be reasonable?”
Michael spun around to see his wife, exhausted yet glowing leaning on the frame.
“Lena, you should be – “
“Asleep? I was, until the horde arrived. Ava’s still down, thank god.”
Sophia, Elena’s best friend, stepped forwards, gently embracing the woman.
“Finally caught up to the rest of us then,” she teased.
“Finley’s way too cute to not want one of our own, though with you lot, I’m starting to feel as if we have a room full of children as well.”
Sophia grinned sheepishly “sorry about that, I guess we’re all a little excited.”
Elena laughed, and went to lean against her husband, who snuggled her into his arms.
The others muttered similar apologies and began the obligatory congratulations. It took a solid 10 minutes before someone dared ask the question, they’d all been sitting on.
“So, uh Mike” asked Aaron, Michael’s best friend since childhood “who are the godparents gonna be?”
The entire room suddenly stilled, looking expectantly at the couple reclining on the sofa. Elena was half asleep – Octavia had been an easy birth, over in only 6 hours from when contractions began, and delivered in her own home, yet it had been an exhausting 6 hours, nonetheless. She tensed now, exchanging a look with Michael. Forget their newborn, their well-meaning family were gonna cause the most sleepless nights here.
Both spouses were New York born and bred, and lived in proximity with nearly all of their childhood friends, and many new ones they had formed. This was brilliant when it came to parties and gatherings, but it also meant that they had a plethora of wanna-be godparents, and no plausible excuses such as distance or a lack of communication.
Michael cleared his throat, exchanging a look with his wife,
“Uh, we appreciate your... concern, but we’ve been rather busy in the last few weeks, so we haven’t quite come to a decision yet. Of course, when we do, you’ll be the first we tell”
He was saved from having to elaborate by a sudden wail from upstairs. Elena went to sit up, but he gently pushed her back down,
“I’ve got this, love.”
Ava was easily settled, and he soon brought her back downstairs to meet her eagerly awaiting aunts and uncles, all who cooed over the newborn, with her white blonde wispy hair still mussed from sleep.
Michael exchanged a look over their heads at Elena – they were saved, for a little while at least.
Hours later, when the guests had finally left, and Octavia had been settled once more, the couple curled up on their bed, entwined in comfort.
Michael sighed “what are we going to do about this, Lena? Anyone we pick will leave everyone else offended and picking no one will just leave the question open for the next decade or so.”
“You know,” murmured Elena “there is something we could do.”
“What’s that, then?”
He felt her smile against his collarbone,
“Name the godparent as someone so ridiculous that no one will take it seriously. They can all be Aunts and Uncles, and the ‘godparent’ can be a sort of running joke between us. No tension in the room, and a damn good story for when Ava’s older.”
“…that might actually work. Did you have someone in mind?”
“How do you feel about going Norse?”
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Loki was elbow deep in magic when he first felt the tug. Literally elbow deep – when he was doing complicated mental magic, he often liked to do something practical and repetitive with his hands. Which was why he was currently kneading his 8th batch of dough that evening.
When he’d first started visiting the kitchen as a child, the staff had been understandably nervous. Granted, Thor occasionally barged through demanding food for him and his companions, and the Queen liked to visit every so often, but never had a member of Asgard’s nobility wanted to actually work. They’d humored him at first, terrified that he’d injure himself in the busy kitchens and lose them all a job at the very least and their heads at worst. However, with years of perseverance, the staff accepted him into their ranks, and over the next millennia he could often be found in the bustling kitchen. As it happened, he turned out to have quite the knack for it.
In the kitchens, Loki could be Loki. He wasn’t the second prince, or Thor’s brother, or Odin’s son. He wasn’t even always a he. Considering the bigotry that ran wild in Asgard’s upper classes, the servants of the palace were contrastingly accepting. Loki never had to hide in the Maze, as the lower levels were known as. He could wear the body he wanted, use the seidr that was such an integral part of him, yet his so-called peers would never accept.
Odin could never know, of course, nor Thor, or even his mother for all her support. As far as his family were concerned, Loki merely spent a lot of time in his rooms. The servants, likewise, would keep his secret to the ends of Asgard. Loki had more support from the inner workings of the castle than anyone would guess, their loyalty had been earned through time, hard work and genuine affection, rather than the fear and intimidation tactics so often used.
In fact, the spell he was working on at that moment in time was one to add portal doors to the palace for the staff’s ease of access. Theoretically, he should be able to fold space much in the way he realm-walked, in practice it was a lot harder than that. So far, it’d taken 8 batches of dough to fix a spell onto a single door frame. He'd finally stabilized the foundations and was now working on finer controls – it’d do no good to have a door that can teleport you from one end of the palace to another if it was the wrong end.
The threads of seidr were finally forming, and he’d just stretched out his mental hands to grasp then when he felt the tug. Well, it was less of a tug, and more of a mental snap. He instinctively dropped the spell he was working on, and the dough at the same time in order to shield himself. The echoes of the strange magic rippled over his shields before dissipating and he grabbed the edge of the table, shaking off the dizziness.
“You okay, Mischief?” called Kaspar from over his pot of broth.
“I’m fine, the spell’s being stubborn,” Loki called back over to his friend. He and Kas were almost the same age and had grown up together in the kitchens.
“That’s what we pay you for.”
“I’m being paid?”
Both boys laughed – this had been an in-joke since Loki had first joined and was tossed around at least once per shift.
Grabbing the dough again, Loki decided to leave the door spell as it was and focus on the magic that had found him. He recognized it as some kind of binding spell, not unlike the ones used to bond shield-brothers. Thankfully, it didn’t seem malicious, if anything it was protective. What was strange, however, was that it’d come from Midgard. Midgard had an unfortunate habit of persecuting its magic users – the last coven to fully use the planets natural seidr had been hunted and killed barely a few centuries ago in the witch-trials. Loki made frequent visits to Midgard in his early teens and had lost several of his closest friends to the flames, though he’d taken his revenge for their loss. Since then, his visits had been less frequent, though still often enough to know that there were very few true magic users left, let alone enough to cast a binding spell of that strength.
Which meant that either a new coven had risen, or someone with a hidden ancestry had somehow managed to activate a bond. Either way it needed investigation, and in-person as well. As the bond appeared to have settled, it didn’t require immediate attention and so Loki decided to rest, then travel in the morning. The bread was about finished by now - he’d unconsciously shaped nearly all the dough into perfect spheres, they’d prove overnight, ready to be baked at sunrise for the morning meal.
Loki quickly washed his hands, wiping down the table top he’d been working on. As the hour was late, the kitchen was mostly empty, with just a few left behind preparing food for the early morning shift to finish. He called goodbye to Kas and the others, dropping a kiss on the head chef’s cheek as he passed. She cuffed the back of his head fondly and he winked at her. Amara was naturally good-natured, yet with a tongue to rival Loki’s and a take-no-prisoners attitude when it came to the welfare of her staff. Needless to say, they got on well.
From the kitchen, Loki teleported directly to his chambers, where he undressed, casting his clothes carelessly onto the floor, and then flopped face first into his bed, dragging the covers over him. The long day had taken its toll on him, and he sprawled across his sheets bonelessly. Tomorrow could wait.
The dawn came far too early for Loki’s liking, pale rays stabbing through his windows into his eyes. He groaned and rolled over. Honestly, it was a travesty to wake so early, Norns knew how Thor did it. Grumbling to himself, he levered himself out of bed, tossing yesterday’s clothes down the laundry chute in the corner. Waggling his fingers, his wardrobe flung itself open and he stepped inside.
The original floor plans for his chambers had been large, befitting a prince, but Loki had taken it upon himself to… redecorate. Which was why his rooms now approximated the size of a small fortress. What had originally been a bedroom, washroom and study, was now 12 bedrooms, 3 washrooms, a study, a library, a workroom for both his spells and other crafts, a small kitchen, a full dining room, and a forest. Which was rather hard to explain to his father when Thor had gotten lost in the 800 acres of woodland, fields and pretty lakes he’d installed.
What it did mean, however, was that his wardrobe was… extensive to say the least. He collected clothes from every era of every realm he’d been on, whether it was the stagnant waters of Asgard, and the ever-rushing stream of Midgard. Which had an admittedly remarkable fashion sense at times. His last visit had been barely a few years ago, and as long as nothing had changed too drastically, the black jeans and t-shirt he’d picked up should blend him in perfectly to the crowd. Grabbing a dark green hoodie as a final touch, he slicked his hair back, made sure his pocket dimension was adequately stocked, and disappeared in a puff of sparkly green smoke.
What was the use of being magical if you couldn’t be dramatic?